


PRIMUM NON NOCERE: FIRST, DO NO HARM

by FebobeFic_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:22:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28934718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FebobeFic_Archivist/pseuds/FebobeFic_Archivist
Summary: Sam and Frodo meet Eowyn for the first time, and each reacts to her in his own way. COMPLETE. 3rd Place 2008 MEFAs Genres:Drama:Hurt/Comfort.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	PRIMUM NON NOCERE: FIRST, DO NO HARM

**Author's Note:**

> I adopted a Shirebunny! I did it! (Sam and Frodo are presented to Eowyn for the first time. What are their reactions to the first woman they've met of the race of Men?) Thanks for the lovely bunny, Shirebound. . .I so needed it. It should be no surprise to those who know me well that this kind of went FrodoHealers-bunny on me. Couldn't help it. :} The bunny just hopped over into that hutch and wiggled its lil' nose and wouldn't leave! Hope you enjoy it nonetheless. ;) A special thanks to NixNivis for confirming the Latin on the title! -Febobe

Part the First: Samwise

It would figure, wouldn't it? One o'them laws o'the world, my old Gaffer always called it back home. The worst time for something to happen is when it'll happen. Like when the garden's wet enough, you'll get a drenching rain that won't let up for three days and your crocuses and cabbages get washed clean out, not to mention your taters rotting. Or bad things coming in threes, like when Mum died and Da's joints acted up something awful for weeks and Ham took a fall and hurt his wrist and couldn't work for weeks either. That was a right bad spell. Runs the same way for everyone, I s'pose; Mr. Frodo says there was when his mum drowned, iand/i his da drowned, and then he took sick with pneumonia not many weeks after. Two parents, I'd count that as two bad things, so that's three right three, aye.

And Strid - I mean King Aragorn, or Estel, or whatever they call him now - getting called away for the first time, and Mr. Frodo falling sick. Sick enough to need more than a bit o'rest in bed and waiting on from me. Sick enough to need a real healer, somebody knows the kinds of awful wounds he's had. I know plenty about what he's been through, but not how to help him, except to give him warm blankets and keep him tucked up in bed and try to make him feel better that way. I try to give him warm drinks - hot broth, toddies, warm milk - but he won't take hardly anything, even for me.

But Faramir's not gone with the King; he's here to look after things, and so he's the one I call in to let know Mr. Frodo needs help. Not that I've much hope he'll know of anybody, but he's kind, so I tell him how Mr. Frodo's been taken with a bad chill and awful pain and nightmares and won't take bite nor sup (a bad thing any time, but thin as he is now, he can't afford that for even a day). He nods gently and comes to Mr. Frodo's big bedroom that was his nursery when he was a boy (Mr. Frodo gets awful tired out with Big Folk-sized everything, though Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin are so fair pleased with their new-grown height that they prefer it) and sits on the edge of the bed, and talks real quiet to my master. Feels his forehead and tucks him in all nice and warm. It's a few minutes before he comes back to me, not that I mind any, seeing as how he's getting Mr. Frodo settled.

"Sam, you needn't worry. I promise that there is someone whom I think I can help. . .someone who will look after your master until the King returns, who understands well enough, I think, to bring him comfort and peace so that he can rest."

I look at Mr. Frodo, huddled up in a tight ball in the covers. He needs sleep worse than anything, sleep not full up with nightmares. If he could rest proper, and eat and drink a bit, then maybe he could hold on long enough for Strider to get back.

"Please."

When he is gone, I go back to Mr. Frodo's side, trying to soothe him a little more.

"There now, sir. Faramir's gone to fetch someone to help you, somebody to help look after you proper till Stri - King Aragorn's back. Soon you'll be feeling a sight better."

But even as I speak the words, I wonder. I know Master does, for he smiles wanly and says nothing.

It seems like no time of me sitting and rubbing Mr. Frodo's thin back before I hear it.

Voices - murmurs from the hall.

"Eowyn - The Lady Eowyn - The White Lady - "

Putting my head out of the room, I motion one of the passing guards close, keeping my voice down so as not to disturb Master's rest.

"What's all the fuss about? Has something happened?"

His eyes widen. "No, little master, nothing ill - only - the White Lady of Rohan herself is coming, the Lady Eowyn! She will be here soon, and everyone is excited - people are gathering in the halls for a chance to see her." He smiles. "I am certain you know how it feels, my lord."

I did, and I wasn't sure I rightly liked it. Uncomfortable feeling, like walking outside with not a stitch o'clothes on. Even Mr. Frodo didn't seem none too fond of it, and more than once he'd pleaded tiredness with the King to avoid it, though I've no doubt he was tired enough every one of those times. Sympathy suddenly flooded my heart for her, coming up through that lot o'gagglers by herself.

I couldn't help, though, but wonder what for. . .and wish I could get a look at her myself.

I knew who she was. The stories. . .Mr. Merry had told us all about her, too, so we'd heard more than just the pretty tales. The more Mr. Frodo heard, the wider his eyes grew. He looked like a little lad listening to fairy-tales about a great princess like Luthien Tinuviel. Only for Lady Eowyn being human, it made her all the more magic to us, for she was somehow more like us in some way. Mr. Merry said she was right interested in our folk, and I'd thought when he said that I'd like to meet a Big Person who was interested in hobbits.

"Sam?"

Mr. Frodo calls out for me, sounding weak as a kitten, the sound enough to pull me back inside without a thought more on that. "I'm right here, sir. Just tell your Sam what he can do for you."

A shake of the head, his dark curls bobbing. "Who. . .what. . .what's happening. . .outside?"

"Nothing to worry about, sir." I tuck the covers in around him more securely, making sure the back of his neck is kept warm as well. "That lady-warrior in the stories, the one Mr. Merry likes and was with in Rohan. . .Lady. . .E'wyn. She's coming through, and people are wanting a look, as they tend to do, sir."

"Oh." He curled up tight as he could, huddled in his blankets, still shaking like a leaf. "Cold. . .so cold. . . ."

I move to get him another blanket, but before I can even turn, there's a soft knock, and somebody puts their head in.

"Pardon me. . .Faramir sent me this way; he said that I might find the Ringbearer here?"

I nod, and at once she approaches, seeming at once to recognise Frodo, her long legs carrying her in great strides like Aragorn's do. . .but she smells of. . .of new-mown hay, not like some lady of the court at all. Fresh grass and sweet clover and hops, and a hint of carrots and apples and sugar. Outdoors. Her hands look fine and clean, though, but not hands that haven't never known a day's work. . .and she sets down a basket as she eases to her knees beside the bed, bending over Mr. Frodo nice and gentle, gold hair falling about her face in tumbled waves.

And for half a moment I almost forget about Lady Galadriel. . .or Lady Arwen. . .or Luthien Tinuviel from the stories.

This lady is real. . .real the way my Rosie's real, the way good taters and carrots and fine-tilled earth are all real, real the way the Shire's real. Elves are all fine and good, and I'm glad to know them. . .but this lady's real as Shire earth.

And I'm glad she's come, because somehow I think that's what Mr. Frodo needs right now more than anything else.

Part the Second: Frodo

Hurt.

Everything hurts.

My shoulder throbs; my neck aches; my back and side feel as if I've been beaten with whips afresh while I've slept. And my hand. . .where my finger once was prickles and tingles, the ache beneath it that of a broken bone. But there is nothing for it: these injuries are healed, or so it looks on the surface, and so I see no value in asking for someone from the Houses to come. I have had more than enough of being gaped at in recent days, and it would no doubt be only more of the same.

But. . .suddenly there is a lady.

A lady, not an elven-maid, but one of Faramir's kind. . .and yet not, for she looks not like him, not of the Numenorean lines from whence those folk come.

The Rohirrim?

Sam said. . .

She bends over me, stroking my hair back, her hands smelling of the outdoors, of grass growing back where barren ground once was, of clover and apples, the fragrance warming and so unlike the cold iciness chilling my bones that I can hardly help snuggling against her touch, wishing she would not take her hands away.

And she does not.

"Frodo. . .Faramir wished to introduce us properly, but he had word of an envoy going to join the King, and wanted most of all to get a message to him concerning your health. . .and to see that I came in the meantime, given that I am not one to stand on ceremony." She smiles - a pretty smile, with even white teeth. "I have long wished to meet you, ever since your cousin told me about you. . .even your days as a mushroom-thief. My name is Eowyn."

It was her. Somehow I knew. Had known. If her name, however, seems no surprise, her actions are: I hear her asking Sam for quilts, and an instant later find myself being gathered up in them, the lady slipping her left arm carefully beneath me, allowing it to support me while her right wraps the covers and cradles me.

Her right.

Shivering, I nestle closer, wanting only to cling to her.

He is gone.

Gone.

She made him go away.

Killed him.

"Sshhhhh." Her voice is a whisper close to my ear, tender, and so soft that I doubt even Sam can hear it. "It is all right. You are safe now. Nothing will happen to you again. I shall not allow it."

I manage only a nod, swallowing against a lump in my throat.

"Will you take a little something warm for me? I have brought some treats for you. . .Sam is arranging them now."

Hesitating, I offer no answer yet, uncertain.

"Ginger tea with honey. . .some mulled wine. . .hot beef-broth and a cream-cracker."

Anything taken held in her arms sounds appealing. I nod a little. "Maybe. . . ."

"Good." Her voice is low, so soothing. . .and I snuggle against her, finding her the perfect pillow despite her slender, well-trained frame. "Merry said that you liked those, but I did not know whether you would like them today or not. It can be very different when one feels ill."

I nod, still clinging to her, at once embarrassed by this and yet unwilling to give it up. It feels safe, and for the first time in a very long time I feel comfortable, in less pain. She is no elven-maid like Lady Arwen, and yet I find myself more at peace. . .more at home in some ways. . .with her, as if some kindred part of each recognised the other.

"Faramir tells me that you are in a great deal of pain, and that you have nightmares. . .and that you feel chilled."

Stiffening, I nod.

"Would you let me help?"

"No medicine. Those medicines are always dreadful. . .they taste foul, and they make me feel sick. The one they gave me for my hand made me feel as if I were floating, and I threw up for hours. It was terrible."

"Of course." She pulls me a little closer, as if to reassure me, much to my gratitude. "No. . .none of that. What I have in mind is something very, very simple, if you are willing."

"Perhaps. . . ." Listening curiously, I look up at her as best I can, getting rather tangled in her hair in the process. "What do you mean?"

...

"Frodo. . ."

"Mmm?"

"Frodo, it's time for your supper, sweetheart. Try a little for me - just a few mouthfuls? There's a lovely bit of white cake, and some blueberries - and some chicken with mushrooms and broth; doesn't that sound nice? Sam's brought you some milk to try and drink down. . .it will be good for you. . . ."

Yawning, I uncurl enough to let her bring a spoon to my lips, tasting slowly.

Some things *are* very, very simple. . .like Eowyn's principle: she has already been skilled in nursing for some years, it seems, and the evidence proves her speech true. Her approach I find practical, for she has done nothing more than to hold me in warm quilts, rocking me at night to help me sleep without nightmares, and to feed me herself, whispering to me of night after night when she wept into her pillow, despairing and not wanting to eat, for it would only keep her alive longer, prolonging her torment. . .though now she is glad she lives, and urges me gently to try what Sam brings for me. So I do, and though still I cannot say that I am better, I feel better for this "treatment."

I only wonder whether all Big Folk females are as wise as Eowyn.

Somehow I doubt it.

She speaks sometimes of. . .of him, in the dark hours of night, when Sam has been sent to bed and she alone sits with me.

She speaks of him, and so do I.

And in the shadows from the hearth, we talk of a thousand dark things that the people who watch along the stairs never want to hear: the way it felt when blade struck bone. . .the charnel-house odour of his dead black robes. . .the icy cold trickle of fear rushing down your spine when he turned your way, the panic. . .the knowing that you were dead, or soon would be, and having no energy left to care, hoping only that you might then feel warm again. Warm and whole and loved.

Words I could never say even to Sam.

Words she says she could never say even to Eomer or to Faramir.

In the shadows we talk together, just the two of us, and no nightmares come once dreams finally take us.

They are too frightened of her, of the Shieldmaiden.

She says that they are too frightened of the brave Ringbearer.

I only know that they do not come, and all is at peace.

-finis-


End file.
